


strangely dressed, for a knight

by myhappyface



Category: Indiana Jones Series
Genre: AUTHOR FULFILLS RESOLUTION TO WRITE SAFE SEX IN THE YEAR 2013, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-08 08:22:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myhappyface/pseuds/myhappyface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Indiana Jones in the making.</p>
            </blockquote>





	strangely dressed, for a knight

Garth has his gun unholstered and aimed by the time Henry Jones _Junior_ shoves into his small, rented room. 

_Junior_ , the boss said when he left Garth high and dry in Moab, you got your ass beat by a babe in blankets. I don't want to see you again until you can manage a job without me having to call in the law to save you from some idiot _kid_.

Jones, to his credit, comprehends the gun quickly and looks back to Garth's face, all burning righteousness Garth can hardly remember feeling. 

"You're nothing but a thief, and you can keep your _fucking_ hat." Indiana spits out the curse with the relish of someone who doesn't get to curse often and feels he must make up for it, when allowed, with enthusiasm. Splays his hand out at Garth with the crown of the hat clutched and crumpled. It's the heat, maybe, or the drink, or the brown walls of his brown room in this brown podunk place, but he grabs the hat and then he grabs Indiana's wrist, and the kid's eyes go wide for a second, wider than when he found a fully-loaded gun pointed straight at his head. 

Garth puts the gun down and picks the bottle up, mimics Indiana's gift of the hat, swings the bottle out by its neck, slaps it into Indiana's hand. He saw the kid menace off a lion; he's not really surprised when Indiana swigs it. Garth backs him to the wall with forearm against his throat. Bottle and hat join the gun with a clatter.

"I'm not _scared_ of you."

"Good," Garth says, leans past him to close the door and on his way back bites down on the large tendon in Indiana's neck. Indiana scratches his nail through stubble down the dark scar on Garth's cheek and Garth bites his lip, hard, licks at the whip wound on his chin, rubs his thumb over it. He shoves his thigh between Indiana's and isn't surprised to feel him go off barely a minute later, extraordinary in all ways but the most common, apparently, shuddering in that all-over aching kind of way. Garth pushes him loose-limbed onto the bed, unmade from the night before, strips them both down while Indiana lays here, big-eyed and splay-legged. Stays that way while Garth fingers him and rolls on the condom, stays that way until Garth is pushing into him and leans down far enough to grit into his ear, "C'mon, Junior, where did all that _fight_ go?"

The name digs into Indiana's back and he twists under Garth, digs his heels in and takes it, mouth open wide for air until he stretches up to set his teeth against Garth's collar bone, cock half-hard again between them. Garth gets his hand in that too-long, too-blond hair and jerks Indiana's head back, sees the blood on his teeth and comes with a grunt. They're both still for a minute after Garth pulls the condom off and rolls over to lay on his back until Indiana reaches down to jerk himself off.

There's a snakebite high up on Indiana's thigh, red and tender looking. Garth thinks about putting his mouth on it and does, then knocks Indiana's hand away and sucks at him until he comes, hand over his mouth to keep him quiet and because Garth likes it. Indiana makes a noise like a cry, like he doesn't know how to move with someone's mouth on his skin. His thigh is pale and smooth compared to his hands, which are rough and brown like Garth's. Garth pulls away and runs his hand over Indiana's leg, like he's a man who knows how to be soothing, or has ever soothed. 

He reaches over to grab the bottle and they pass it back and forth for a little while. It's quiet enough he can hear the old man he's renting from moving around in the yard, clucking at his one lonely cow. He's glad not to be staying.

"I like you," he says, "So I'll tell you something for free. You want me to take it back because you don't want to be me, fine, it's a while until my next paycheck and those things are expensive. But that cross, that cross or anything else out there? You don't want to look at it in a glass box, all shined up. I know you don't, because I don't. You want to drag it out of the ground yourself. You want it dirty and alive in your hands."

Indiana snorts, cheeks flushed a dull fever red, the prettiest thing Garth's seen in miles. There's still blood at the corner of his mouth. "You do this all the time? Show up and take whatever's worth taking and then do it all over again somewhere else? I could never work for the kind of person you do. I _would_ never."

"Getting paid's easier than getting screwed, kid," he says, and finishes up the bottle, lets the burn of it fuse with the sweat sticking him to the sheets, the heat of the day around them. "You might figure that out sometime." 

Indiana clenches his jaw and looks away, toward the small window high up on the wall, a square of desert blue sky in a small dark place. The tense, straight line of his jaw: another thing Garth wouldn't put in a museum. Garth laughs to himself and gets out of the bed, to get dressed and to catch up with the rest of them. Well-laid and mostly drunk, waiting for a ride across the river won't be the trial it was when they rolled into town a week ago clamoring for God's gold. Indiana pulls the sheet up over his hips, but there are bruises shaped like fingers on his haunch, not something that could be mistaken for any other thing.

The hat and the gun are still on the table, and he's on his way out the door when Indiana says, "Might not."

**Author's Note:**

> The Indy wiki tells me Indiana was born in 1899, making him thirteen in the flashback at the start of _Last Crusade_. RIVER PHOENIX DOES NOT LOOK THIRTEEN, BECAUSE HE WAS NINETEEN AT THE TIME. I aged him up to feel less like a perv; read him as 17 or 18. Also consider this revenge for making a thirteen year old say stuffy grandpa things like THIS BELONGS IN A MUSEUM.
> 
> All of which is to say, this story's working title was, "Good _GOD_ , Lemon."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Hat Trick](https://archiveofourown.org/works/761256) by [apiphile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/apiphile/pseuds/apiphile)




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